


Missing (You)

by nightcourthighlordrhysand



Series: Feysand [5]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Feyre, F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 23:30:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10819032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcourthighlordrhysand/pseuds/nightcourthighlordrhysand
Summary: [Prompt: Feysand Smut] Feyre needs Rhysand to come home for a whole host of reasons





	Missing (You)

**Author's Note:**

> It is killing me right now that I can't read ACOWAR yet. Finals will be over soon [deep breath]

Feyre kicks the door shut with a sigh, keys slipping from her fingers with a clatter, her purse following with a quiet _thump_ soon after.

Her newly bare feet drag across the soft pile of the rug that stretches through her shared apartment.  Habitually, she listens for the sound of her roommate - who also happens to be her beautifully attractive _prick_ of boyfriend who’s been out of town for the _entire_ week - before sighing again.

Sleepy fingers work the small pearl buttons of her blouse free and it drops to the floor followed by a quiet _zip_ which precedes the _whoosh_ off her charcoal skirt as it falls from her hips in a heap.

The _one_ benefit of having her gloriously endowed bedfellow out of town is the ability to be as much of a slob as she likes.  Although the disorganization loses it’s glimmer when the opposite side of the bed is empty and the sheets are cold under her grasping fingers.

Groaning, Feyre tugs the clip from her hair, letting it tumble down around her bare shoulders as she reheats leftover Chinese take out.

Soon enough, she’s lounged on the couch, overfull pillows at her back as she takes a long pull from her cider, icy condensation dripping over her knuckles - still paint flecked from her early morning session in the back studio.

Some mindless sitcom plays on the nearly muted television as Feyre twirls lo mein noodles around her spoon mindlessly, washing down the bite with a bubbly mouthful of cider.

Spearing the last few bits that linger in the carton, Feyre pushes the empty container onto the table, pretending not to hear when the weight of the fork tips it sideways onto the glass top.

The empty bottle clunks to the floor as it leaves her chilled fingers and her head drops back to the plush cushions behind her, goosebumps kicking up across her skin.  Her eyes drift closed as the sun’s remaining rays slip behind the horizon, but Feyre’s blue grey eyes don’t see it, already shut in sleep.

Lips drag across her shoulder, up her neck, behind her ear.  _Rhysand_.  She _knows_ it’s just a dream, a beautiful gorgeous unreal but _almost_ real dream.  Before she becomes conscious enough to leave the beautiful glorious dream, Feyre lets herself drift into the glorious embrace of her missing boyfriend. 

Strong fingers slide down her arms, warm breath brushing over her temple as his purring voice slips out, “Feyre darling.”

She nearly moans as dream-Rhysand’s lips become more insistent against the column of her neck, sure to leave a mark just below her jaw, or there would be one of she was _awake_.

All too soon, he’s pulling away, the warmth leaving and she stretches to stop it, stop him, and finds herself face down on the floor with what will certainly be bruised kneecaps - won in a much less enjoyable way than dream-Feyre’s.

Before her angst-filled grunt leaves her throat, Feyre finds herself being lifted from the ground and perched carefully on the couch.  _Am I still asleep?_

Feyre’s eyes drift open as long fingered hands cup her face gently.  “I guess now I can say you’ve literally fallen for me.”

Milliseconds later she’s muttering _prick_ against his lips, teeth tugging at the lower one as _real_ Rhysand kneels between her thighs.

“I come home early,” he pauses to press kisses across her cheek toward her ear, “and what do I find?”

She hums, only half listening as he continues, “My lovely Feyre, _darling_ ‘s clothes strewn across the entryway in a rather lewd fashion-”

Grunting, Feyre’s brow furrows, “I was uncomfortable and _tired_.”

“I’m not complaining,” Rhysand drawls from between her breasts, hands slipping behind her back to _free_ his two friends.

Strong forearms stop her from dropping back against the couch as Rhysand tugs her forward, her legs swiftly coming to wrap around his waist.  Feyre mouths down his neck murmuring, “I _missed_ you.”

His agreement rumbles through his chest where it’s pressed against hers.  With a sigh she reaches the juncture between his neck and shoulder, biting down with enough force to draw a moan from his open mouth as he stumbles forward, holding her between him and the wall.  “ _Feyre_.  That’s _dangerous_.”

Feyre scrapes her fingernails across his still clothed back, “Well we both know I’m rather _fond_ of danger.”

“I noticed that when you pulled me into that closet at the gala last-”

She tugs him closer, fingers knitting through his dark locks desperately, “We can relive that _later_.  Right now I’d like you out of _this_.”

Feyre works the buttons of his shirt open with quick fingers, unveiling swaths of skin she quickly presses open mouthed kisses across - hot and wet.

Rhys moans, pushing them off from the wall and striding quickly toward the wide open door of their room, bed still unmade on one side, Feyre’s nightclothes strewn across the floor from her early departure for the gallery.

Her hands slide between them, fumbling for his belt, then button and zipper in quick succession.  Rhysand steps out of them easily, dropping her onto the bed, drawing a surprised laugh from Feyre’s throat.

Eagerly, Rhysand rids himself of the rest of his clothes and settles between her thighs.  They exchange increasingly heated kisses, breaths mixing, mouths open and searching until Rhys breaks away, working down her neck, over her chest - lingering for a moment or ten - before he reaches the waistband of her lacy panties.

Her disgruntled noise turns into a needy moan as his teeth flash in the dim lighting toying with the pale green fabric.  “Wearing my favorites _without_ me?”

Legs tightening around his torso, hips bucking almost of their own accord, she grits out, “I wore them because I _missed_ you.”

He nuzzles closer, still not reaching exactly _where_ she wants most, and quirks a brow, insufferable smirk ticking his lips upward.  She sighs, “Ok I was too lazy for laundry too.”

“Ruining lots of underwear in my absence?  I don’t like that,” Rhysand purrs, tongue teasing at her skin.

Pulling him up by his arms, Feyre grumbles, “I’d rather not talk about _laundry_ right now if it’s all the same to you.”

Before he can answer, she’s slipping out of her remaining garment and flipping their positions, pinning his arms over his head with a grin.  More kisses are traded, sloppy and breathy.

In between presses, Rhysand sighs, “Don’t you want me to-”

Feyre answers with two sharp tugs below, “Nope.  Too long - already-”

He kisses her again, “ _Ready_?”

Forgoing a verbal confirmation, Feyre sinks down, bringing their hips flush as twin moans fill the air.  Fingers knit together against the plush pillows still mussed from the previous night, they work in tandem, bringing them both to a fever pitch as Rhysand flips them again, diagonal across the half unmade bed, dragging her leg high around his hip as they both groan as his last few thrusts finish _everything_.

Sweat cooling, breaths relaxing, Rhysand rolls to the side, pulling her back flush against his chest without hesitation, deft fingers tickling across her belly playfully.

She slaps at his hand halfheartedly, and in testament to his jet lag, he relents with a slow press of his lips against her shoulder.  “I missed you.”

Feyre hums in agreement, “Yes.  I missed you _a lot_.  So rest up.”

Rhysand strokes up and down her arm gently, nuzzling at her hair, “Ready for round two?”

Her fingers twine into his hair, scratching at his scalp, as she sighs contentedly, “Always.  But I was more thinking of that pile of laundry in the corner.”

Deep chuckles fill the room as he tugs her closer - a feat she’d thought impossible, “You’re such a slob.  Who makes that much laundry in four days?”

Pinching his arm, Feyre laughs, “I was feeling particularly inspired this week, excuse _me_.”

His hips push forward meaningfully against her, “Any preference on the order of things?”

“Well seeing as we’re already here - ”

 


End file.
